A blog mostly focused on poetry. I am not sure I understand anything else.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Preface to A Life

‘Fair seed time had my soul. Then I grew up.’—William Wordsworth, The Prelude, Book I

Part I.

I have a dirty secret to discloseBefore we start here. Can I be candid?This isn’t the profession that I chose.I’m no poet. I don’t understand it.Like any child, I dreamed of writing prose:My box of cereal, The Daily Planet,Proust—they spoke to me. And poetry—It seems a rotten way to treat a tree.

Your poet only has three subjects: love,Despair and death. Maybe the odd flower.My numbers here are estimates. And rough.I have just drawn zero for an hourWhich seemed like an Eternity—enoughTime to admit the limits of my power:The Muses call me, but I cannot sing.Sure, I can give you Shakespeare, gargling,

That’s simple: he is in this huge bathroom,A Dixie cup in hand, an inch of ScopeBubbling in his throat. Scope, I presume,Not Listerine, which kills bacteria, Hope,You, and me, and everything—ka-boom!William was hygienic—not a dope.I once was his—let’s just call me a guest—Since I was underage and such a pest.

My own facilities are less extensive:I’ve got the standard toilet, white, a smallBathtub, a sink. Talcum powder givesMy place a pale, late Roman air. Each fallThat fragile autumn light, for which I live,Will form a golden window on the wallRight above those faucets—there. I’m sorryFaucets don’t figure larger in my story,

But try to let your mind fill in these gaps.Use whatever odds and ends you wish:Your own experiences, marbles, maps,A plum stone glistening in a glass dish,Your favorite pair of underwear—those chaps—Leftovers from the rodeo in Bliss.A big bermuda onion. I don’t know.Something should suggest itself. Let go.

Daydreaming is a thing I like to doWhen I have these imaginary needs.Most authors have a strategy or two.John Milton summoned scrolls, papyrus reeds,Imported at great expense from the past. It’s true,Lord Byron also dabbled in some deedsOf great Antiquity—at least on paper.My own involvement in that curious caper

Consisted of a week in Italy,Spent cruising, boozing, having the want adsRead to me over oranges and coffee.“Now, here’s one,” Byron said, “Do you drive cabs?Have abs? Do you crave immortality?I’m looking for an epic hero, lads:If you are muscular, can swim, or fly,Reply by photograph—and don’t be shy!”

His Lordship cut the ad out with a smileI do not have the skills to recreate.I had been out of work for a long while,And since great beauty seems to be my Fate,I did not add his clipping to the pileOf orange peels I placed beside my plate.I glanced down at my boxers on the floor.I always knew I’d be a hero, or

A star, somebody special. Back in schoolI did some modeling for extra money.The teacher had me stand on a barstoolAnd said, “Pretend you are Apollo.” He—I have to say I felt like quite a fool:Apollo’s nowhere near as hot as me.But they were paying people cash—ten dollarsAn hour. I pretended. Students, scholars,

Each sat stiffly at his flimsy easelWhile teacher twinkled, orbiting the class.Boys glared at me, like I embodied Evil,As if I were one huge, malignant massOf muscle. All except this one guy—Steve—I’llCall him. His mouth just opened wider asI began, quite slowly, to undress…Excuse this small diversion. I digress.

Part II.

I have a feeling gaping mouths are notThe most propitious places to beginA work of Art—but I am in a spot—A god—Apollo. Can’t I be forgiven?You work with the materials you’ve got.And when you have a bunch of gifts from Heaven—Nice teeth like these, luxurious, long hairThat bounces beautifully—you want to share.

Although I’d never send a guy to HellFor praising his own features in this way,Not everyone up here’s so wonderful—So I’d be careful with that resume.Among my peers on Mount Olympus—well—The sad divinities who now hold sway—A somewhat jealous spirit still prevails.Venus will extract your fingernails

If you annoy her. All I do is rhyme—Brain a lazy reader with my lyre.I used to pass out plagues for a good time.I lent my son the Chariot of Fire,He incinerated Persia. I’mSorry for that. Kids. Our laws requireCelestial beings to be licensed now,For all light vehicles—from crane to cow.

Modes of transport differ. Even here,In Heaven, we find harmony elusive.Although each god has been assigned a sphereOf influence, gods can be reclusive—Some would prefer we didn’t interfereIn Man’s affairs. Some turn red, abusive,Chanting, “Blah, blah, blah—not anymore—Just look what happened with the Trojan War!”

Let Homer dwell upon that dismal plainWhere Troy once stood—that heap of stones and ash—Her towers toppled, all those horses slain:Life goes on. We’ll follow AeneasFrom Ilium, to Carthage, on again—To Italy—Virgil’s Aenied. That was fast:Aeneas left the cinders of his homeAnd one of his descendants founded Rome.

His wife near death, dad hoisted on his back,His son, Ascanius, clutching his right hand,‘Mid smoke and flames—and that spine splintering crack—I watched Aeneas assembling a bandOf refugees—still reeling from attack—Astonished, terrified, and angry—andI was amazed: away these people stole,With only life—Existence—as a goal.

Now, there’s a man I could work wonders with.When the moment for departures came,I joined the Trojan forces. I existNow thanks to them: Apollo. Same name, sameAthletic youth I always was—no myth:Some gods are good at the survival game.Since Rome was destined to devour Greece,I felt that Heaven ought to get a piece.

I chose Olympus, naturally, and weCrowned Jove with victory. And Zeus, poor dear,Our late, lamented chief has been—you’ll see.It can be odd to be a god. One yearYou’re Lord of Lightning—next you’re History—A bunny nobody would ever fear,Banging a drum for better batteries.As you can tell, I am not one of these.

I am the god of Prophecy. That’s whyI tend to show up on the winning side—Even when the contest is a tie.You can’t prevent the turning of the tide—Although you are at liberty to try.The last time that I saw the Moon defied,I heard my sister sigh, and with a shrug,She crushed this kid’s sandcastle like a bug.

Diana’s rather moody, for a rock,A maiden prone to madness. Take the rageShe showed Actaeon—that bewildered buckWho stumbled on a sliver of her imageFloating in a pond: it always struckMe as severe—given his young age.She sent a pack of hounds to chat with him:They ripped the lad apart—limb from limb.

The birds still speak of him, so do the trees,“O, Actaeon! Transformed from man to deer,And then—a frightened fragrance on the breeze.”You may have sympathy—but let’s be clear:My sister does exactly what she please—She’s not—what is the phrase—not in your sphere.We all have boundaries that we must obey.Perhaps one day we won’t. It’s hard to say.

But when we don’t, I’ll tell you. At Delphi,Cumae—wherever strange events occur—I’ll dress up as a lady, for a fee,And murmur things to kings about your Future—Things inconsequential, friends, to me—Since Mars, remember, is our god of War.I’m Archery, Arts, Medicine, the Sun.I am in charge of germs. And hydrogen.

Making music is my main concern;The Fate of you, your pets, your family,The gases Pompeiians give off when they burn,Their density, volume, toxicity,How many embers children can inurn,Are governed by a different Agency.A different Deity—I should say,Since we are all Olympians today.

Except for him. I do not count that child—Cupid—mixing milk in with his wine.“Pray, Bacchus, see his empty skull is filledWith burgundy—with visions so divineHe thinks he’s God Almighty.” Love has killedMore than one mortal trying to combineThe forces which set God and Man apart.Our differences aren’t subtle. People fart.

We do not. And we look better inA leopard, dancing, tearing off your head,Your legs, an arm, whatever is virgin,Or available. Somewhere I have readMen taste more like pork than roast chicken.Not that it really matters. I’m in bedMost evenings well before ten o’clock—Long before the clubs begin to rock.

I am an early riser. HomicideI find a bit disgusting. There’s no rush,No thrill in killing. It is hard to hideFrom Jove—The Thunderer. I still will blushWhen I remember how I almost diedOne morning. Suddenly, no warning—Whoosh!I happened to be hunting for my sister:How narrowly that arrow missed her!

T’was then, I think, I entered Medicine.“First, do no harm,” I say, with emphasis.You can thank me for aspirin, Ambien,Peroxide, dentures, and Q-Tips. And this:This box of Trojans—in gold foil—just inCase anyone should try to force a kiss.Humanity will do that. Sometimes,Men are deaf to Reason. Even rhymes.

You are exceptional. Don’t get me wrong—I love humanity. I love the lark.I add a pinch of brilliance to his songEach dawn—when half the planet’s in the dark—When Vulcan’s snoring in his forge amongComputer guts and cannons—it’s a perk.We’ll share a Milky Way on Sunday nights,Admiring you, and all your satellites.

I had Vulcan make the crystal ballI gave Cassandra—Cassie. Pretty girl.She hated my prophetic gift. She’d callIt cursed—called me despicable. She’d hurlThat innocent glass globe against a wall:The silly thing thought she could change the worldBy shattering it! Imagine her despairWhen it bounced back and hit her. How unfair!

Part III.

I wonder if I’m cruel enough to beConvincing as Apollo? I don’t know.I was born in Buffalo, you see,The Town of Tonawanda—land of snow—A rusty suburb of Reality.We manufactured autos, long ago.Nothing much goes on here anymore.Luckily, our taverns close at four.

Here, Mendelssohn wed Edwin to KathleenAround the time of my conception inA battered Skylark. Dad was a Marine,Lance Corporal. Loyal, like most Marlboro Men,They say he shot a cigarette machineOn Okinawa, from frustration, whenA pack of twenty Camels tumbled out.Yet, I never saw him smoke. Or shout.

Mom insisted that he switch to snuffWhen I arrived. They slowly separated, andI only knew my father long enoughTo miss him really—hold his massive hand.The debts he left made life extremely tough.Some kids need discipline, you understand.Mom did her best. She did not spare the rod—Her special spatula—the Wrath of God.

That spatula and I, we still survive.We pass strange things along in my family.Ghost stories, mostly. Like who dropped the knife(This bayonet—my father’s legacy)Down the laundry chute. It’s my belief—And here my mother and I disagree—The thing was cruddy. And so down it slid.It needed washing. That’s what mothers did.

I brushed my teeth and I was sent to bedEarly that night. That sort of shocked me, too.I’m sure that in my Future you saw red—A bloody end, involving scarlet dew-Drops, total melodrama. No. Mom said,“Do you know how I got this big boo-boo?”I nodded very meekly—in this style—And pointed sadly at my brother, Kyle.

“Man hands on misery to man,” of course,Nothing could be easier than THAT.Happiness is harder, and a sourceOf great perplexity to poets—atLeast those creeps who scatter metaphors,Like tears, across each page, without éclat,Éclairs, or anything more pleasant. ISincerely hope I am not such a guy.

My mother heaved the huge, eye-rolling sighShe usually saved for The Three Stooges.Despite my innocence, and cuteness, IWas tucked in tightly. Kyle burped brown juicesOn his bib, not quite comprehending why.To this day, that wicked child refusesTo admit anything—though he can talk.And walk. He’s even lost his taste for chalk.

Well, before I fix him, it is clearWe need to straighten out this dialogue.Now, what were we discussing? Proust? Shakespeare—He once permitted me to walk his dogWhen I came over. It was pretty weird:My mind filled up with music, then a fog,This mist precipitated in my eyes—I thought it was just raining. Big surprise:

I was back in the old neighborhood;And Heaven only knows how I got there.We moved a lot. But I was pretty goodAt climbing out of trouble. My highchairProved to be a problem though. I couldNot master gravity. Perhaps the airMalfunctioned. Or my wings. At least I tried.I cracked my cranium, and cried, and cried.

God, curiosity must be the baneOf my existence. Take this incident:A bawling baby with a bit of brainExposed. Was this a portent, or the dentDeath left inside my consciousness? For painI got kisses, not the monumentI wanted, carved in marble: TRAGEDY.I need to work more on my savagery.